


Christmas in Soho

by Quannon



Series: Good Omens Character Studies [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Coffee, M/M, Unspoken Love, beatnik, holy water request (good omens), pre-scene: Soho 1967 (good omens), robert service poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quannon/pseuds/Quannon
Summary: A third-party perspective of the second meeting of Crowley and his Angel in 1966 after the Holy Water refusal in 1862.I have no idea where this came from.  I was working on other stories along more normal lines, but this one wanted to be born today.  I chose the title because I don’t know why it wanted to be thought of, completed, and posted today otherwise.There’s no sex, no snuggling, no first time anything, no violence, no whumpf and almost no Christmas.  There is poetry (Robert Service), but not love poetry exactly.  I think there is a lot of anguish and angst.  And I think love and pining are also in there.  If you haven’t read the book or seen the series, it probably won’t make any sense.  It might not make any sense anyway.  But it makes me cry because Robert Service’ poetry always makes me cry.  And I think his poetry about sums up Crowley and Aziraphale in a lot of ways.So, if you get past this summary, buckle up for a poetic face off and bad noir characterization and a surprise guest, if you don’t figure it out right away.CW:  Ch 1 is very sad and angsty, but Ch 2 redeems it, I hope.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Character Studies [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564321
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. December 1966, Soho

I remember that I had many places I could have been at that moment, but where I had chosen to manifest my presence was in Soho, a couple of days before Christmas, 1966. Soho had an energy that I had always liked. It was seedy elegance, and hopeful despair, and nihilistic cause and effect. I quite liked the chaos of it with its opportunity for something new to emerge. Right then, I had wanted the unique brand of bad espresso that only the English could believe was good to emerge from one of the remaining beat coffeehouses and into my hand.

Beat was an interesting cultural movement. It stayed very fringe in its pure form, not quite making it to wild popularity until it began to metamorphize into tuning in and dropping out. That lasted until the cool cats got old enough to do better marketing. Soho beat coffeehouses were giving way to rock venues at that time, but the Flashkick still offered folk music, poetry, and less visible forms of escape and renunciation to those nostalgic for them.

So, at 2 in the morning, I pushed open the door and entered the Flashkick’s smokey interior. I glanced around, hunting for a table. Luckily, one opened up just off to the right with a good view of the stage. I sauntered over and plopped down wearily. It had been a difficult year all told. A girl with long, ruler straight blonde hair in a black leotard took my order for a double espresso. She looked me over like ‘what are you doing here?’ or ‘shouldn’t you be dead?’, but I just shrugged, and she went back to the counter to make the coffee.

There was a very small stage and a spotlight on a single wooden chair with a mike stand in front of it. Could be for a solo musician or comedian as the next act. Instead, a boy in his twenties with a weedy beard, a de rigueur beret and a theoretically white poets’ shirt announced, “Poetry man.” He looked around the audience and pointed to a figure at a back-corner table that you could barely see through the cigarette haze. “You, Red. Robert Service.”

This apparently meant something and was acceptable to ‘Red’ as he languidly stood up and slithered his way through the packed tables to the stage. He got easier to define as the spotlight hit him, but, dressed in all black like he was, with shades on to boot, he only really stood out by his hair. Red; red like banked embers; red like the slitted eyes of Smaug the Serpent.

The leotard girl brought my espresso and set the tiny cup in front of me. I slipped her a fiver, so she owed me a little information. “Robert Service?”

The five-pound note disappeared like it never was. She looked at me and finally decided it wasn’t a state secret. “The poet man. Great white north.” She turned to go but threw out over her shoulder. “Face off.”

I sipped my espresso and let the bitter bad grind slid down my throat like the exfoliation it was. No one made bad espresso better than the Brits. I sighed contentedly and looked up as Red started to speak.

“A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;  
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;  
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,  
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.”

A straight up recitation. Hmm. I looked around the crowd and saw an unlikely participant. He blended into the smokey haze almost completely. He was only noticeable if you looked at him directly. Red was to be expected, but this man - he was all beige and cream and light blue with a beloved velvet waistcoat (judging by the worn material at the buttonholes). He had fluffy curls on his head, so blonde they the bled into white. He sat primly in his rickety chair and sipped something from a teacup that sat in a saucer on the microscopic table in front of him. When he looked my way, he had piercing blue eyes with kind, cupid bow lips and I felt somehow lighter than before. 

Meanwhile Red was warming, if you could use that word about Robert Service, to the poem. I glanced back at him and saw with some astonishment that he seemed to be speaking directly to White.

“Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,  
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;  
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,  
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;  
While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —  
Then you've a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.”

I must have stared at him for longer than I meant to, looking for some connection between Red and White. The words of the poem tumbled to their end.

“Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,  
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.  
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,  
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.  
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so.  
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —  
The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that's known as Lou.”

Red sat back in the stage chair and gestured in a florid, Elizabethan way toward White. “And what do you have to say to that?”

White said nothing. He took a sip from his cup and placed it neatly in its saucer on the table, dabbing his lips with a napkin (source unknown), before raising his eyes as he stood. He cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back, and began.

“It’s fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,  
With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want;”

He spoke straight and true. The audience seemed to hang on every word. I couldn’t tell if it was the poetry that grabbed them or if it was the tension building between Red and White. Rather spell bound myself, I watched Red closely as White brought the poem to a close.

“Time has got a little bill — get wise while yet you may,  
For the debit side’s increasing in a most alarming way;  
The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done,  
They’re all put down; it’s up to you to pay for every one.  
So eat, drink and be merry, have a good time if you will,  
But God help you when the time comes, and you  
Foot the bill.”

Without fanfare or more ado, White sat back down in his rickety chair, tugged on his waistcoat, and took a sip from his cup. After dabbing his lips, he looked up at Red. “As you say.”

Red snorted his laughter with his head flung back in full enjoyment. The crowd took their cue from him and echoed the raucous laugh. The play on breaking the rules and keeping the rules seemed to resonate. But when the fun began to fade and the breath rumbled in his chest, Red stood to take back the stage and began again to speak.

“If you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about --  
Grin.  
If you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt --  
Grin.”

I looked at White to see how he received this. I was somewhat shocked to see that he had blanched. There was meaning here below the surface. Robert Service was speaking about life in the wild but Red was talking about something else entirely. Was White somehow subjugating Red? Or Red White? Or ??? Whatever it was, it had to be larger than life and death in the Yukon.

Red thundered to the rebellious ending, almost rattling the windowpanes.

“There's nothing gained by whining, and you're not that kind of stuff;  
You're a fighter from away back, and you WON'T take a rebuff;  
Your trouble is that you don't know when you have had enough --

Don't give in.

If Fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff;  
You may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff,

And grin.”

This time, Red stayed standing, one foot front, arms crossed akimbo with hip cocked. He looked down his long nose at White. “You still refuse?”

White seemed as frozen and pale as the Yukon for a moment. Then he slowly stood keeping one hand on his chair back. A spotlight seemed to shine down on him, but I would swear there was only the one for the stage.

“Twas a year ago and the moon was bright  
(Oh, I remember so well, so well);  
I walked with my love in a sea of light,  
And the voice of my sweet was a silver bell.  
And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,  
And sudden my love had taken wing;  
I looked on the face of a grinning skull,  
I strained to my heart a ghastly thing.

'Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still  
In my arms, with her tender eyes aglow,  
And she wondered why my lips were chill,  
Why I was silent and kissed her so.  
A year has gone and the moon is bright,  
A gibbous moon, like a ghost of woe;  
I sit by a new-made grave to-night,  
And my heart is broken -- it's strange, you know.”

Red actually gnashed his teeth. I’d never seen it before, but it stood out as his were somewhat spikey and with almost fang-link canines. He hissed,

“An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street;  
His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet;  
So the Master stooped in Her pity, and gave him a pass to go,  
For the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below.”

White stood straighter; I’ll give him that. The man had spine. But I could tell it took an effort. This unspoken/spoken battle using words not their own over some unknown objective was cutting them both. There was no plain text here, no clear message for the ones listening. But the content was clearly received between the two of them. I began to care deeply for these two beings. I care for everyone and everything because isn’t it all God’s Creation? But I have to confess, some strike more chords than others, for good and for bad, on my heart. These two obviously cared very much for each other or they wouldn’t bother to fight. And they weren’t fighting to win, they were fighting to join.

White unexpectedly interrupted Red’s recitation and provided the ending himself.

“Then the Master feared for Her angel, and called him again to Her side,  
For oh, the woman was wondrous, and oh, the angel was tried!  
And deep in his hell sang the Devil, and this was the strain of his song:  
"The ancient, outworn, Puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong."”

Red glared at him, frustrated in being thwarted of making the point himself. “Then what say you to this, Angel?” The crowd hushed. For some reason in this beat coffeehouse in Soho London a few days before Christmas 1966 a literary contest of best recitation of Robert Service poetry was mortal combat. The tension was as thick as honey and flowed around and through the people, thrilling their souls. I was affected myself. What would Red do?

“Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,”

What blood remained drained from White’s face. He clutched the back of his chair with one hand and the tartan bowtie at his throat with the other. He was transfixed by Red’s face, focusing on his thin agile lips. 

“Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,  
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?  
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,  
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?  
Have you seen God in Her splendors, heard the text that nature renders?  
(You'll never hear it in the family pew.)  
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --  
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.”

Red leaned forward with his whole body. He seemed to bend in places that didn’t go that way. The spotlight seemed to have moved somehow so that he was still lit, but his shadow had grown behind him in the cigarette haze. Although he looked the same size, he seemed to fill up the space and he was completely focused on White.

“They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,  
They have soaked you in convention through and through;  
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --  
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.  
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;  
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.  
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,  
And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.”

White trembled but stood his ground. 

“I know a garden where the lilies gleam,  
And one who lingers in the sunshine there;  
She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,  
And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know a garret, cold and dark and drear,  
And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,  
Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary -- then  
He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim,  
Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;  
Yet he is in the garden by her side  
And she is in the garret there with him.”

He turned to go, not beaten, not afraid, but overcome with some emotion I could not name. Then he turned back one last time. The audience seemed to disappear or somehow be suspended, but I could hear every word. “Oh Crowley!” He looked at Red with imploring eyes. “I cannot.”


	2. The first Sunday of the rest of their lives, Soho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the story.

I often wondered what had eventually happened between Red and White after that night in the coffeehouse. Red had slunk back to his table in the corner and seemed to disappear except for when the long-haired girl in the leotard brought him more of whatever it was in his cup. The rest of the crowd went on like nothing much had happened. Ultimately bored, I finished my espresso (it had been everything I had dreamed of!) and took off into the night.

I heard later in 1967 that a weird robbery had gone bust after the Sergeant Pepper album had been released but before the Israeli-Egyptian Six Day War started. It was the talk of the criminal elements of Soho for at least two days. Everyone got paid, but nothing got stolen. Weird. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected that Red and White might have been involved.

After that, I drifted out of the UK and visited parts unknown for a while. A busy time was coming up in my schedule and I needed to take the break while I could. What had Gale Garnett sung? Oh yeah, “Let’s sing in the sunshine ….”

When I got back to the office, I saw that things had progressed just as I’d hoped they would. I had a closing coming up on a big deal that had been in the works for ages. It looked like I had executed a winning strategy in the little chess game I had going on with the competitor and that things were going to fall my way any day now.

So, I eased back into the saddle as it were, engaged with my information systems and brought myself up to date on what everything and everyone had been doing since I left on walkabout.

What followed after that was a supremely satisfactory week. Each “pawn” performed admirably and in the end, victory was mine. 

Ok, that was completely obnoxious, and I know it. Sometimes even I get a little carried away. Emotions are such lovely things but not necessarily biddable. 

As I have mentioned before, I care for everyone and everything because isn’t it all God’s Creation? It’s the whole free-will thing I have trouble with. Not that it exists, but that it can’t be touched. If it’s touched, it’s not free will by definition. So, I have to stand by and watch my children struggle with it. When I can convince them to do the right thing, the thing that makes them strong and healthy, that’s a win. When they choose the other way, I feel I’ve failed as a parent. As J. E. Lawrence said in the Nebraska State Journal, “There is nothing of sham or hypocrisy in it. It is what it is, without an apology." Only I have as much trouble forgiving myself as all of my children do in forgiving themselves and each other. (I’m pretty good at the forgiving them part though.)

So, the literal truth was that my grandson was all that I could hope for: a strong, courageous, creative boy; my son learned a valuable lesson although I’m not sure what he’s going to do with it yet; my ridiculous organizational structure might get a much-needed overhaul and a new mission statement; and my chosen champions exceeded every performance expectation. Everyone was stellar! (Including Sergeant Shadwell – I don’t have any nipples after all.)

I wish I could tell White (yes, I know it’s Aziraphale, but he will know if I use his name; it’s like calling to him) how proud I am of him. I was from the first time I tested him, and he lied to me about the sword. He was the perfect guardian of the eastern gate and of humanity. He was willing to stand up to me to defend the humans! Ok, he didn’t just tell me to go stick it, there’s taking chances and then there’s taking chances, after all. But he got the job done all the same. (heart eyes, if I knew how to use emojis).

And Red! Crowley, my little rebel without a cause. He just wanted a little freedom to ramble and make things. He always loved making the nebulae and the stars. Over all these millennia he outmaneuvered and outfoxed both Hell and Heaven to get what he wanted. (I’ve read those fan fiction stories about him. They were spot on; he really did save as many kids as he could before the Flood. White did help by making the children and him invisible to Noah’s family and miracling a little more food when he could. He disguised it as provisions for the Ark.) Red never presented only a one-sided picture during any of his temptations. It was balanced and even. He was successful because a lot of humans just decided wrong for all the usual reasons. Being a parent is hard! I’m afraid I might have accidentally wished that on the humans, but it wasn’t on purpose. It’s the free will thing.

There is a lot of satisfaction in playing the long game. Agnes worked out better than I could have hoped as a messenger. (And don’t get me started on Leslie …) 

So, I was taking another break in London again after Red and White’s trial. I just really have a yen for badly made espresso (if you stick to the totally British coffeehouses you can still find it) when I ran across Red and White as they traded their bodies back in the park. Oh, my Word! White was saying ‘yes he could’ in every way but sky writing. It is totally possible that might happen when they seal the deal and become pink. Ok, that was obnoxious, and I know it. Sometimes you just fall into the word trap. Good thing they can’t hear me even if I am cheering them on.

But the least I can do is help with their dining plans. I’ll get them the best table at the Ritz, and I’ll send a Nightingale to Berkley Square so they will know it was me (if they even bother to think about it).

Love,  
I AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll Sing in the Sunshine - Wikipedia

**Author's Note:**

> [The Shooting of Dan McGrew  
>  The Reckoning by Robert W. Service | Poetry Foundation  
>  Grin - Poem by Robert William Service (famouspoetsandpoems.com)  
>  Premonition - Poem by Robert William Service (famouspoetsandpoems.com)  
>  The Woman And The Angel - Poem by Robert William Service (famouspoetsandpoems.com)  
>  The Call Of The Wild - Poem by Robert William Service (famouspoetsandpoems.com)  
>  Unforgotten - Poem by Robert William Service (famouspoetsandpoems.com)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45082/the-shooting-of-dan-mcgrew)


End file.
